


Bahorel Versus Mathematics

by Prin_of_Pol



Series: Les Amis Versus Highschool [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Dissing and Hating of Maths, Gen, Helluvalot of Swearing, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 21:17:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prin_of_Pol/pseuds/Prin_of_Pol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel hates maths. X+B=Y should I care?</p>
<p>Les Mis Highschool AU, part one of several.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bahorel Versus Mathematics

**Author's Note:**

> I really should stop writing new stuff before I finish my old stuff...

Bahorel fucking hates maths. Maths is stupid, useless, and when the fuck is he ever going to need y=mx+c in real life anyway?

Maths, his maths books, his calculator that’s been thrown against a wall one too many times and doesn’t work properly anymore, his stupid fucking maths teacher and his stupid fucking face, and Combeferre, with his straight-A grade average and fancy maths tricks can all go rot in a hole for all Bahorel cared. Well, maybe not Combeferre, Enjolras might have issues with that, and by ‘might have issues’ he means fucking explode.

And do you know what Bahorel hates more than maths? Maths last thing on a Friday. And do you know what he hates more than maths last thing on a Friday? Maths first thing in the morning, especially on Monday, and especially when it’s hot outside.

Which is where he’s stuck now, and to make matters worse, it’s a double period, and he’s hungover from the party he and Grantaire snuck into on Saturday. Yeah, he’s still sore from that, that’s how much he had to drink. 

He’d managed to snag a seat in the back, near the window, and the only thing stopping him from sprawling all over his desk, falling asleep, and letting the sun burn his hangover off is Feuilly’s sharp elbow digging into his ribs periodically every few minutes. His ginger friend was pretending to do work, gripping his pencil tightly in his yellow-stained fingers as he sketched in the margins of his exercise book. Bahorel sniggered, brushing his hair out of his face, eyeing the perfectly drawn eagle of Poland carefully outlined and shaded in the corner of his page.

Feuilly sneered at him, and jabbed him with his elbow again.

“Ow, fuck!” Bahorel snapped, rubbing his ribs with a pinched expression on his face. “Keep your fucking pointy parts to yourself!”

The ginger cackled, and up the front, the teacher glared at them. “Language!” he growled. “Keep working boys!”

Bahorel groaned, and leaned forwards, trying to see over Combeferre’s shoulder to his answers. “Oh fuck,” he lamented, seeing the neat lines of working out, and the formulas written properly, and the correct answers and perfect scores. “Little shit’s not even using a calculator!” he griped to Feuilly. In front of them, Combeferre laughed and turned the page of his text book.

The bulky boy looked down at his own book, and felt his headache multiply like the numbers on the glossy page.

“Shit. How the fuck do these formulas even work? Like, I draw this squiggly thing, add a little floaty number or whatever, and I’m supposed to know that what I punch into my calculator is the square root of negative one, divided by, like, seventy three, take two, and whoopsy daisy, it’s the meaning of life!” He threw his pencil down in disgust (and anyone who did their maths in pen, like Jehan, was totally fearless, and totally stupid,) and sulked.

Feuilly blinked at him, and tenderly set his own pencil down on the half-finished drawing of Courfeyrac’s new kitten (which they were all not-so secretly in love with). “Okay, one, you can’t have a square root of negative one. Two, don’t question the formulae –”

Bahorel snorted. “Formulae? You fucking ponce!”

Feuilly ignored him. “Don’t question the formulae, some long dead Greek made it up, so I’m pretty sure it’s too late to come up with another one. And three, everyone knows forty two is the meaning of life.”

“Fucking nerd,” Bahorel scoffed. 

Feuilly rolled his eyes and tapped an equation. “Try this one.”

Bahorel glanced at it, and would of slammed his head on the desk, but his head was sore enough already thanks. “And Satan said ‘Put thy alphabet in maths,’” he quipped, squinting at the page. “Let’s see…x+b=y should I care?”

Bahorel hates maths.

Giving up, he tilted his chair back and stared out the window, willing his headache (and the accompanying images of certain ginger haired, artists tap-dancing on a polish flag) away.

He spied a Phys Ed class doing push-ups on the field out the front of the school, and Bahorel smirked when he spotted the familiar pale, red headed figure sulking on the grass.

No matter how much Bahorel may hate maths, he had nothing on how much Joly hated Physical Education.


End file.
